Awesome

Last week being Thanksgiving and all, I spent all weekend being thankful.  Thankful for this, thankful for that…you get the picture.  One thing I am NOT thankful for, though, is good penmanship.  Or maybe I should say good pee-manship.

Scene 1- Can you be creative with a pee?

I've spent a good portion of my life peeing swear words in snow, sides of buildings, and starting various tic-tac-toe games in random places in hopes someone will finish the game. I've never felt like I had an “A” game with my pee. I've been doing it for long enough you would think by now I would have done a really nice portrait picture, or a beautiful sunset that would make your mother cry. Sadly, I’ve done nothing of the sort. I have wasted more time listening to the sound it makes when it hits the concrete which is very.... soothing… or pretending my pee stream is making plenty of corn rows in the dirt for the farmers to grow this year’s crops and this is somehow my little contribution. I should have been trying perfect my lack of steady hand. I would have really liked to have mastered ten – twelve fonts by now for parties and get-togethers so people could say, “hey tinkle toes do that somewhere else huh?” Then I'd be forced to do the “kinked hose” and take my talent somewhere more appropriate/appreciated. So thirsty-three years later and I still have a first grader’s penmanship with zero fonts and a crappy losing streak of tic-tac-toe.... sigh. Discouraging it is, makes me want to pound down a bottle of You-Hoo and pick paint chips off the mail box.

Scene 2- Girls

Can girls cross the streams and if so is it awkward?

Are you the one who plays on my tic-tac-toe boards with capital and lower case I's and L's?

Why hover when giving snaps like a center to a quarterback clearly works so much better? BLUE 42! BLUE 42! UPSET STOMACH! TACO! TACO! TACO!FISH HUT HUT HUT!!!!

(I've worked enough retail to know how that game is played and let me tell you that nobody wins)

Why is the boys bathrooms always cleaner? You have nice flowers and lovely music in there. You also have air-fresheners that smell of new car, but it's overcome by the smell of a covered wagon on chili beer hot-dog night.

The only thing that makes sense is the air freshener is used to cover up dog poo you may have stepped in earlier when you were skipping and you decided to be dangerous and play a game of skip or dare across the neighbor’s lawn when you know his three dogs eat well and the old man has a bad back and his kids are all grown up and live outta town, but they always stop by for the holidays and it's always snowy and cold that time of year anyways so really it never gets picked up all year, but you gambled with your new 8” clogs with traction control and you were doing really good and then got cocky and decided to some electric slide boogaloo on the old man’s lawn and did a clap clap stomp number only to find you have paid the ultimate cost — dog poo on the new 8” traction control clog that never comes out of shoes, not even with the power washer at five feet away, no matter how much you wash and try not ruin them and when you leave them out in the sun for the three day rule of dog pooh thinking you got most of the icky and sticky off and will wash the rest off later after the shoe has dried off in the sun only to your surprise when you wet the 8” traction control clog which you only wore once down in the kitchen sink to find the dog poo only was a sleeper cell and you have reactivated the smelliness and now the turd has taken the new clog hostage and controls 75% of surface space eventually leaving you to have scrape out the turd from within the grooves of the traction control system while contemplating your turd-to-cost ratio only to find out that paying $120 for another pair is worth every penny.

Scene 3- un-kinked hose

With enough practice, I’m sure you can develop your own peemanship font.  Peemanship generally comes in two styles — up-and-down or back-and-forth.  It really comes down to whether you’re a flinger or a swayer.  Flingers have tall fonts, swayers have wide fonts.  I guess another style would be shaker—don’t ask me to explain.  Whichever font style you use, you’re gonna have to be mobile. You can’t write a manifesto standing still.  Once you’ve settled on a font style, you’ve got to decide if you’re a wall-writer or a floor-writer.  If you’re a wall-writer you’ve really gotta find a long wall, because you really only have one line of text.  After that it all drips down, messing up the words below, and you have important things to write!  Don’t let a little drip screw with your message.  Floor writers have it easy.  Find an outdoor basketball court, bring a gallon jug of your favorite beverage, and it’s just a matter of time before you’ll have your essay ready to read.  Don’t forget to drink up before you start…nothing ruins peemanship like poor water pressure.

Well this has been a real turd to write about. Sorry. I can't say peeing on the wall provides some epic life-changing story to write, or anything so incredible that it will inspire you to go on and do great things in your life.

I had looked up some quotes in hopes of filling your heart and soul with something warm to walk away with …

“Don't cross the streams”

“If you can't be good at it, at least be better than those around you”

“Hey I'm peeing over here!”

“Don't look—I'm gun shy”

“Greatness can come in small packages”

“I don't know much math but my calculator does”

You’re welcome to any of those by the way.

This was shot in a half court of something?
I changed my clothes in the court, there was a group of kids skateboarding in the court behind me. I think they thought I was some package of nuts.
The pee was fake (frown face) I used a bottle of water on the first two m3's and just used the photo of the shop to finish the awsomeness.

I hope I killed off a few minutes of your day with a smile.

Thanks for all the support!! Without you I'd just be writing to m3.

Check back sooner and later.

I do stuff,

Christoph

20 to Your 1

Have you ever had ADHD? I did, it's great fantastic awesome bad-ass!

Spent most of my childhood making obnoxious car sounds with my mouth, peeling out whenever there was a chance: school, home, quiet time, asleep time. I didn't care what or where... BRRRRRIIIINNNN !!!BRRRRIIIINN!!! BRRRRIIINNN !!! SQAWEEEEE!!! SQAAAAWEEEEEE!!! SQAAAAWEEEEEE!!! BRRRRIIINNNNN !!! BUUHHHUUUURRRR!! BUUURRRRRHHHUUUR!!

I finally grew outta that...psshhh NEVER!!!

You’re welcome, whoever gets to witness me rounding corner 5 at the grocery store.

If you want people to leave you alone wherever you might be, give it a try. You can be your own car or truck, or if you have enough creativity you’re always welcome to be something else that peels out—like a Big Wheel or a RadioFlyer. I’m not here to judge nor do I care.

Nobody mucks around with the guy or gal who makes peel-out sounds with their mouth while they strut around.  Start a wreck with someone you don't know (or someone you do know). You will be in their priers tonight—guaranteed! I do it all the time it works great!!!

Do you have a kid with ADHD? Buckle up my friend and enjoy those years of “SHUT THE HELL UP!!!” Take my advice: get yourself a hobby that takes you far, far away from home. Something like looking at National Geographic boobs in person, replanting the Amazon Rain Forest, or some kind of solo mission that requires you to blow on paint (dry or wet, it doesn’t matter!). This is the only possible solution if you still want to be—at best—on speaking terms with your kids later on in life.

 I would like to take up this little space right here and thank everyone who knew me in my growing up years who didn't kneel down and punch my face.

With ADHD everything has to be fast—I ate fast, did my homework fast (okay, ditched that so I could do stuff), I even watched TV fast.  I had super speed, or what felt like super speed to a 5-year-old. I kinda felt that way all up to 14-ish. I had great hand-eye coordination and a hunched back with a ka-dunk-a-dunk ass to follow. I was built for speed all the way round.

At least that’s what I thought.  I never had the lung capacity to ever make it really far . Anything farther than running across the street and the only thing fast about me was my mouth.

 silent sqaawee's

I was a product of my environment more and more as I grew older, but when I was little everything was really far, so it didn't matter.

When I was in Junior High a few of the neighbor kids and I decided we would all go out for AA Soccer. I played lots of soccer growing up. Okay, let’s be honest.  I WATCHED lots of soccer growing up, I sucked! I was signed up for it year after year only to wake up early and waste most of my Saturday morning sitting on side of the field freezing my ass off. Even if you didn’t know me, you could always spot me out there.  I was the one who looked like a homeless kid.

I looked that way 99% of the time anyway unless I was naked (and I still say it should be 100% of the time). I still look that way to this day, it's the “in” look for me I guess.

For the AA tryouts I wore my typical soccer uniform: a Metallica t-shirt, baggy pants and a hat worn backwards. I'm pretty sure my shoes had smoke bomb green on them from the previous 4^th of July.

We started out doing sprints half way across the soccer field. That's a pretty good distance for me, that's right about where my mouth sounds start backfiring KA-KA-KA-KA-KAKAK-AK-AK. 

I was in one of the last groups to go. I lined up with kids I've never met and pulled my smoke bomb-dusted skater shoes to the white line, revving my mouth for a good ol’ fashioned ass-whoopin. I knew I had those *&$#@ (meows) licked.

All my friends had already run and they were standing over by the coach, waiting for the next round. We lined up 4-across and he blow his little whistle tweeeeaaaatttttttt...

I ran so *&^$#@ fast I buried the other kids, BRRRIIIINNNNN-ing and BRRRROOOMMMM-ing all the way. 

I hit the finish line, SCREEEEEEAWWW-ed through a left-hand turn and kept on racing…until I ran outta gas a few steps later. VVVVVRRRRRAAAAAWWWwwwsssshhh.

The coach mouths off and says “whaaa... is that kid on drugs?” Not knowing my friends were standing behind him laughing their asses off. Needless to say I was cut from the team. Let it be okay I say. If soccer doesn't need me, I don't need soccer. I was just there to blow the dust off my BBBBBRRRRRIIIIIN BBBBBRRRRIIIN Big Wheel.

That was the last of my sprint days. Later on in life I got extra lazy, started smoking and to be honest, who the hell wants to run fast anyway? I still had my hand-eye coordination tucked away for another day.

One of my first jobs was washing cars. It was a perfect ADHD job. I worked with almost all my friends at the time, so work never really felt like work. It was like dick-off time with pay. All I can say is that idle hands are the devil’s hands, no matter what age you are. You had the choice of smoking or smoooking or flipping quarters or playing Knuckles. I'm not sure if you know what Knuckles is, but I’ll explain it fast-like.

First, line your knuckles up with someone else, “fist-to-fist.” You decide who goes first, it doesn't really matter who starts. The object is to smash your knuckles down on top of your opponent’s knuckles. As soon as the whomever it my be breaks away from your fist you have the option to move. If you’re slow you learn to get really quick really fast. The whomevers turn continues to go on as long as they have hit your hand.  The beatings continue until they miss or you cry. When they do miss it's your turn to repay the favor—if you haven't quit by this time.

It was at this crap-ass job for $6.00/hour, Thursday – Sunday, 3pm-close. During my down time I found that I was given the worthless talent of being “Champion of the Universe Knuckles smashing guy.” I should have been sent to the Olympics! I loved that game. I would play anyone who was willing to play. Man, woman, child or beast, I never discriminated. I don't believe I ever lost a game of Knuckles.

Maybe I didn’t lose, but that's not saying my eyes didn't well up with tears when someone hit me after playing for hours on end. Nothing like bashing the hell out of your hands at the beginning of your shift and having eight hours of washing cars and smashing knuckles ahead of you. I remember making ice packs just so I could drive home. Days of pain would follow. I loved it!

After I left that job I had nobody to play. I should have started my own tournament, like Blood Sport, where people who played Knuckles could come from all around and we could mix it up with people who have other talents like high-kicking, or skipping, or being double-jointed. We could battle it out ‘til the bloody, bitter end.

After suffering Knuckles withdrawal I started giving people 20-1, which meant I will allow you to miss 20x to my one. I only remember one person (you know who you are) taking me up on that. Once.

I still appreciate it.

And thank you x2.

I sometimes wonder looking at this pic if it's not just me beating myself up and looking the other way. I do that a lot. Meh...one day I will get the best of me.

I took this pic in an outdoor racquetball court. I drove around for weeks looking for a wall that would work.  Once I found it I had to wait for the &$%*# racquetballers to get out of my way.  Figures I’d pick the most popular wall in town.

All of the m3s are wearing the same clothes, I just changed them in Photoshop.

I heart Big Helper.

I think everyone should adopt a catch phrase. “I do stuff” has been mine for a few days now. When the pic was finished I brushed it in using a bleach bypass filter with a vignette.

Thanks for playing along with me and my m3's

Come back anytime, and tell a friend if it made you smile or if it disgusted you … I'll take either one—or both!

Check back soon-like. We love havin ya

I do stuff

Christoph

All These Things About m3

I used to think this name couldn't have anything less to do with this m3 until I recently put on a clean pair of underwear.

 I always think better when I don't stink. Sometimes it’s hard to come up with a good idea, and then give it a fitting name. Even clean underwear doesn’t always do the trick. What to call a m3? Icky Dicky Shuffle, I Want Tacos, Save the Planet...etc. I figured not all my m3's had to have some deep meaning, but they all deserve a decent name. A song came on the radio by the The Joy Formidable it had some lyrics that fit so I just left it. I figured when I found a better name I could change it since it's my picture and I can do what I want with it. It's not like I'm changing my seventeen-year-old kid’s name ‘cause at the time of birth I thought Burnt Toast the 3^rd would be a knee slapper at parties, graduation and funerals.

I put some thought into what this name could mean for my m3, and whether I needed to change my underwear again to come up with a more fitting idea…There it was like seeing a boob that wasn't a family member’s for the first time. , “WOW! HELL NO! You’re not changing that got dang m3 or its Joy Formidable name!”

 Not because I have some weird infatuation with my penis or anyone's penis for that matter. I heart making people angry!

When I see someone’s misfortunes it lights up my eyes like a kid coming down the stairs Christmas morning and seeing all of the gifts under the tree. Before you bring out the delete key and fist pump in unison into the night sky, let me explain. I'm just talking about small, small misfortunes, I'm not talking loss of life or life-changing moments, but to have someone so angry and filled with disgust that they would throw half their lunch onto my car warms my heart. That guy just gave up $4.37 because of me!

Watching the dad sitting next to me at a local hockey game wave his hands in a frantic motion trying to get the attention of the mascot with the way- way- way-overpowered 50 caliber t-shirt special edition sniper rifle, take one to the chest and get blown back into his seat in slow motion as if he were acting out a scene in The Body Guard, only to have the free t-shirt land in my lap is just Hi-Larious! (I gave him the #*^% shirt, so calm down)

I've done 10k things to piss people off and I regret none of them. Maybe one day I'll write about all the douche-bag things I've done, but that that day will not be today.

So that being said, there’s always two sides to a story even if it's your own. I can honestly say I've been there for more people in a time of need, distress, happiness and sorrow than most people I've meet in my life. I've never asked for anything more than a thank you. I've never taken money, I never even asked for the favor to be repaid (unless this is my freeloading family reading this and you mother effers owe me like 1k moving man hours and I will hold everyone of you accountable till I'm repaid in full!). So I can't say I love to be hated, or being hated more than loved, I just like to make people happy and angry all in the same breath. We can call it “hagry,” or “grappy,” or “you *&%$#@ I’ll stab your face.” I'm okay with any of those.

I’ll be honest—there’s really nothing helpful or friendly about this m3, unless you consider reducing the risk of skin cancer on about 5% of his back helpful.  Maybe that’s the douche-bag side of me coming out…or maybe I’m saying that when I’m helpful I’m only 5% helpful…or maybe I’m saying nothing about me at all, just saying that m3 was a real dick…or maybe this was one of those m3s that has no deeper meaning at all. I'll leave it for you to decide.

In this shot I changed my swim suit 3x.
I hated the face I made in one so I had to hide him in the top corner. I wanted to look sly, but for some reason it turned out to look more like I just payed taxes.


I burned my skin with the Photoshop and went back over it with a white soft tip bush ... fancy that!
Then m3 with the sunscreen in hand had to be taken several different times 'cause I was so far off from the m3 laying down.


Fact: I dislike grass on my skin. 


shirtless + grass + me = damnation




Thanks for your interest in my m3s and a little story time.

Stick with us on our journey. We love having ya!

I do stuff

Christoph

NOBODY LIKES A SMART ASS



This m3 was inspired by my friend’s dad.

Growing up, no matter what group of friends I had there was always one kid who had the "hang out house." It was great! No matter what we were or weren't doing, it was just cool to be around other ass-bag kids like yourself. 

You know, it's kinda weird that no matter how old I get and how many groups of friends I had, the conversation never really changed... talk of which girl has the biggest boobs and how many you have touched (knowing you just asked me the same question two hours ago with the answer still being “10k”), or how many fights you have won, with that number changing day to day depending on who was around that could call your bull jit…and do you think this stick could be a ninja sword/machine gun/rocket launcher/ flamethrower/hedge trimmer/dog pooh cleaner-offer. 

 Some families were okay with having a house full of kids. They got their kid to stay home—but at the cost of having his degenerate friends hanging out there as well, and sometimes even having to tote a truck load of kids along when they went somewhere. It was a filthy game of give-and-take. We all had to play on both sides of the court (parents vs. kids).

Some of the kids I hung around growing up possessed special powers. Powers of being capable of saying things like “please,” and “thank you.” Others had the more popular gift of mouthing off and getting away with it. I think for the most part we all were being facetious, but we'd brag about how one of us with this super power would hit the jackpot and be eligible for the "BIG CHUCKLE" of the day award. Whenever one of us earned such a prestigious award all the rest had to hear about "that one time" for years to come.

   In our group, just like every group of friends I’ve ever seen, was the kid who shared less of these “super powers.” They still felt like they could mouth off, thinking they too held such powers, and would be in the running for the “Chuckle.” You know the type—they saw a kid with "The Power" get away with something once, so they figure they can do it too, even though they can't read a situation well enough to know just how stupid it is to even try.

Well, there was this one story floating around among us kids about an un-gifted friend. I can't confirm this story to be true, but I do believe it in my heart that it is.

My friend’s dad had a crazy temper, he could lose it at any second.  Being around him was like petting an angry badger you just smeared with mayo and smacked with a stick for the last hour, while throwing up gang signs. Nobody really messed with this guy.  He was a great dad, don't get me wrong. He would do anything for his kids and his kids’ friends. You just knew not to pop off when you were anywhere near him.

One night he had taken some of the other friends to a sporting event. On the way home the old man was lecturing the oldest son on why badgers hate gang signs and mayo. The old man was balls-deep in his lecture, I'm guessing hitting mid stride by this time into the talk. One of the friends in the car puts his hands together and starts rubbing them together violently, warming them up like he's getting ready to go perform on stage for the ultimate “BIG CHUCKLE” award.

From how the story was told to me, he mouths off “ Yeah blah blah (son's name) be a little more re....” Mid-sentence he was cut-off by the sounds of BUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR as the car goes flying sideways down the road, laying four black trails behind! The car rocked to a stop with the smell of four tires whose life span just got cut by several thousand miles filling the air. As the dad turned around, all the air was sucked out of the car like a nuclear bomb had just gone off.

I DON'T NEED YOUR *&%$#@ HELP YOU &%$@! MONKEY *&%$#  I &%$#@ SUCK MY *&%$#@! MOTHER *&%$#@ FAMILY OF *&%$#@! LAWNMOWER *&%$#@! MY HORSE *&%$#@! SIZE 9 *&%$#@! MEOW *&%$#@! KALAMAZOO *&%$#@! PUMP JOCKEY*&%$#@! BEANS ARE TASTY *&%$#@! ONCE I HAD *&%$#@! BIGHELPER *&% GIGLET*%$#@ BUTT WHOLE *&%$#

TROUT OF BROWN *&%$#@! TURD &^%$#@! CAN'T TOUCH THIS *&^%$#@! SCRATCH N SNIFF *&$# DINNER IS READY *&$#@! 4 WARN WEATHER *%$#@!

I'm not sure how long it went on for but I could only imagine.

It was a silent night oh holy night ride home.

Nobody Likes a Smart Ass (Not Even m3)

In this shot, it felt like a thousand degrees of heat in my car. I made this mid-summer and it was sticky and icky. I took 5 frames just to get the right angry face and I also added a pretty badass tat on my arm. The other 2 m3s came out pretty good first go-round. I didn't have to mess with them much. I was wearing the same clothes in all the shots just changed them in the Photoshop.

In most of my m3s I stick my Big Helper logo hidden in different places for fun. Maybe you can find them?

Thanks again for taking the time to read my goofy stories of my m3s.

Check back regular-like and I'll keep ‘em coming.

I do stuff

Christoph

Main Entry:

facetious

My first m3... with story time

Well, here it is.... 

I'm going to blog scribble my li’l heart out about my m3's I've created. If you have never seen and or knowledge anything about them here is some more ... stuff. (I like stuff)

I always enjoyed photography and I enjoyed Photoshop. Not being very good at either/or they combined to be Photoshopgraphy.

I started with a small, purse sized, crap-ass camera that required all the sun’s light to take alright pictures—not to mention the "predictive shot."  Just try to get a shot of your pet or kid when you have to predict 2 minutes after pressing the &%$#@ button jobby trying to capture the moment. All you get is the dog’s ass or a blurry mess of child running down the hallway.  

The day came when I could finally afford/finance a fancy DSLR (so fancy—click click click click click click click click click click click click click click click—and then I was all like whooohoooo and more click click click click click click) yeah that fancy, it is.  

I took pictures of everything I could...and I quickly learned that my expensive-ass camera was no genie.  It granted me no National Geographic covers... not in the least. I came to the conclusion I was taking more crap-ass pictures in higher megapixels at a faster rate than anything.  You take 400-500 pictures of one thing it's going to eventually come out, right?

I read the manual, purchased spendy books and magazines, magazines and books, and read them back and forth, forth and back.  After all that reading I started to get some better results but I couldn't figure out how people were getting these incredible photos.... grrrr!  Why for the love of Christmas won't mine take those kind of pictures?! 

I spent a freakin’ penis and a wrinkle on this camera—why won't it take great pictures?  Does it hate me?  Did it hear me break the wrong kind of wind?  Do I offend?  WHAT!! Do I need to sacrifice my  small toe to make my pictures look Facebook-ready?  I mean I can't hold my camera arms-length away in a bathroom, it’s too big and heavy. Lord knows I've tried... I'm only one man!

I've seen lots of books on the Photoshop. I was always too shy to ask the Photoshop book out, always afraid she was too smart for me and she wouldn't like me ‘cause of that weird donkey laugh I have every time I see something happen to someone else’s misfortune...

I finally got up the nerve to ask her out (Photoshop), but then I purchased her not-so-attractive sister, Photoshop Elements, instead cause she was s’posta be easier... Like anything in life she wasn't and I cried tears of frustration, kinda like when your least-favorite actor is still getting work summer after summer ... sigh (you know who you are).

I took a class at the local High School, spent the money on a class that was gonna get my skills up to ???? Facebook statuses.

Ahhh.. words that don't go well with School: night, adult, extended, me... Word to the wise: spend your money elsewhere, like getting the brakes done for your wife ???  or getting your man a coffee mug that says size doesn't matter... All I'm saying is anything was better than that class.

I spent lots ‘n lots of time with trial and error with my photos some which will never ever be the same... Sorry pictures, I didn't know??? 

I did get better eventually, which brings us to this point of my m3's.

I know right, shut up... my mouth is getting dry just reading this.

I never liked him either 

 

I wanted to try this after my Photoshop skills were better. Yes, those machines are mine and I played them 98% by myself.  I realized I needed some arcade machines after years of riding my bike down town when I was a kid just to put a single quarter in the Streetfighter 2 arcade, or the Mortal Kombat machine (and don't doubt that I didn't).  I heart video games.

So after coming up with the idea of creating more than one of me, I thought it would be cool to have a bunch of me playing my arcades. I started off with 7 mes.  No dice.  Asses ‘n elbows everywhere.  I couldn't make it work.  I benched a few mes, started over and still wasn't good enough… sigh… I made my final cuts down to 3.  3 worked. 3 is good.

Back in the day I had a crap-ass cell phone I had programmed it to spell out m3 when I was referring to me... so clever, huh?  Anywho, I put my thinkin’ cap on and there it was: m3 ... me 3... m3 3 of m3!  Ahh, you get it...

I really do like me most of the time, but my face looked pretty angry when I was pointing. I took 10 frames to make this... and yes I played 3 levels ‘til I could correctly do Subzero's fatality and get the timing right with the camera to take the shot. Once I got that I played almost a whole game of Killer Instinct to do an ultra combo with Jago. 

So, there it is.  My first m3, taking me back to when I was a kid at the arcade.  All of the m3s have meaning: sometimes they’re deep, sometimes they’re crazy and sometimes they just do stuff (I do stuff).

If you like what you reads and/or what you sees, follow up on us.

It will be fun x3

Christoph